Miss Marjoribanks

by Mrs. Oliphant

  _Chapter XXXI_

  Lucilla waited till twelve o'clock, as she had said, for Mr Cavendish'svisit; and so mingled are human sentiments, even in the mind of a personof genius, that there is no doubt she was at once a little disappointed,and that Mr Cavendish gained largely in her estimation by not coming.Her pity began to be mingled by a certain respect, of which, to tell thetruth, he was not worthy; but then Miss Marjoribanks did not know thatit was circumstances, and not self-regard, or any sense of dignity, thathad kept him back. With the truest consideration, it was in thedining-room that Lucilla had placed herself to await his visit; for shehad made up her mind that he should not be disturbed _this time_ by anyuntimely morning caller. But as she sat at the window and looked outupon the garden, and was tantalised by fifty successive ringings of thebell, none of which heralded her expected visitor, a gentler sentimentgradually grew in Lucilla's mind. Perhaps it would not be just to callit positively regret; but yet she could not help a kind of impressionthat if the Archdeacon had never come to Carlingford, and if MrCavendish had never been so weak as to be drawn aside by Barbara Lake,and if everything had gone as might have been expected from firstappearances--that, on the whole, it might have been well. After all, hehad a great many good qualities. He had yielded to panic for the moment,but (so far as Lucilla knew) he was now girding up his loins to meet theemergency in a creditable way; and if, as has been just said, nothinghad come in the way--if there had been no Archdeacon, no Mrs Mortimer,no Barbara--if Mr Chiltern had died, as was to have been expected, andMr Cavendish been elected for Carlingford--then Lucilla could not help amomentary sense that the arrangement altogether might have been a notundesirable one. Now, of course, all that was at an end. By dexterousmanagement the crisis might be tided over, and the worst avoided; butLucilla became regretfully conscious that now no fate higher thanBarbara was possible for the unfortunate man who might once, and withhope, have aspired to herself. It was very sad, but there was no helpfor it. A certain tenderness of compassion entered Miss Marjoribanks'sbosom as she realised this change. It would be hard if a woman did notpity a man thus shut out by hard fate from any possibility of everbecoming the companion of her existence--a man who, on the whole, hadmany capabilities, yet whose highest fortune in life could not mountabove Barbara Lake!

  This thought filled Lucilla's heart with gentle regret. It was sad, butit was inevitable; and when Mr Cavendish's note was brought to her, inwhich he said simply, and very briefly, that though not sure whether heunderstood the meaning of her letter, he should certainly do himself thepleasure of accepting as usual her kind invitation, Miss Marjoribanks'sregret grew more and more profound. Such a man, who had been capable ofappreciating herself, to think that, having known her, he should declineupon Barbara! The pity was entirely disinterested, for nobody knewbetter than Lucilla that, under the circumstances, no other arrangementwas possible. He might marry the drawing-master's daughter, but MissMarjoribanks was too well aware of her duty to her friends, and to herposition in society, to have given her consent to his marriage withanybody's daughter in Grange Lane. But still it was a pity--nobody couldsay that it was not a pity--a man so visibly capable of better things.

  Lucilla, however, could not afford to waste her morning in unprofitableregrets. An evening so critical and conclusive had to be provided for inmany different ways. Among other things, she had to invite, or rathercommand, the presence of a guest whom, to tell the truth, she had noparticular desire to see. The Archdeacon was only a man when all wassaid, and might change his mind like other men; and to bring MrsMortimer to Grange Lane in the evening, looking interesting, as, to besure, she could look by times, after that unpleasant exhibition of DrMarjoribanks's feelings, was naturally a trial to Lucilla. Mr Beverleyhad drawn back once before, and that when Mrs Mortimer was young, and nodoubt a great deal more attractive than at present; and now that she wasa widow, forlorn and faded, it would be no wonder if he were to drawback, especially, as Lucilla acknowledged to herself, when he saw theancient object of his affections in her own society, and among all thefresh young faces of Grange Lane: and if the Archdeacon should drawback, and leave the field open, and perhaps the Doctor, who ought toknow better, should step in--when she had got so far, Lucilla rose upand shook out her draperies, as if by way of shaking off thedisagreeable idea. "At all events I have to do my duty," she said toherself. And thus it was with that last and most exquisite refinement ofwell-doing, the thought that she might possibly be going to harm herselfin benefiting others, that Miss Marjoribanks heroically put on her hat,and issued forth in the dinner-hour of the little pupils, to invite herlast and most important guest.

  This period of suspense had not been by any means a happy or comfortableperiod for Mrs Mortimer. The poor widow was living in a constantexpectation of something happening, whereas her only true policy was tohave made up her mind that nothing would ever happen, and shaped herselfaccordingly to her life. Instead of eating her dinner as she ought tohave done at that hour of leisure, and fortifying herself for the wearyafternoon's work, she was sitting as usual at the window when MissMarjoribanks came to the door. And if it was a tedious business lookingout of the window when the rain was drenching the four walls of thegarden and breaking down the flowers, and reducing all the poor littleshrubs to abject misery, it could not be said to be much more cheerfulin the sunshine, when pleasant sounds came in over thatenclosure--voices and footsteps of people who might be called alive,while this solitary woman was buried, and had nothing to do with life.Such a fate may be accepted when people make up their minds to it; butwhen, so far from making up one's mind, one fixes one's thoughts uponthe life outside, and fancies that every moment the call may come, andone may find one's place again in the active world, the tedium growsmore and more insupportable. As for Lucilla, naturally she could not seeany reason why Mrs Mortimer should sit at the window--why she could notcontent herself, and eat her dinner instead.

  "There are a great many people in Carlingford who have not nearly such apleasant lookout," Lucilla said; "for my part, I think it is a verypretty garden. The wistaria has grown quite nice, and there is a littleof everything," said Miss Marjoribanks; and, so far as that went, shewas no doubt the best judge, having done it all herself.

  "Oh, yes, it is very pretty; and I am sure I am very grateful toProvidence for giving me such a home," said the widow; but she sighed,poor soul, as she said it: for, to tell the truth, though she was notso young as she once was, it takes some people a long time to find outthat they themselves are growing old, and have done with life. And thenoutside, in that existence which she could hear but could not see, therewas one figure which was wonderfully interesting to poor Mrs Mortimer;which is a complication which has a remarkable effect on the question ofcontent or discontent.

  "You ought to take a walk every day," said Miss Marjoribanks, "that iswhat is the matter with you; but, in the meantime, there is somethingelse I want you to do. This is Thursday, you know, and I have alwayssome people on Thursday. It is not a party--it is only an Evening--andno dress to speak of. Your black silk will look quite nice, and be allthat is necessary. Black is very becoming to some people," said Lucillareflectively. She looked at Mrs Mortimer with her head a little on oneside, and saw in a moment, with the rapid glance of genius, just whatshe wanted. "And some lace for your head," Miss Marjoribanks added. "Idon't think you have gone off at all, and I am sure you will look verynice. It is at nine o'clock."

  "This evening, Lucilla!" said Mrs Mortimer, faintly: "but you know Inever go out--I am not fit for society. Oh, don't ask me, please! Sincepoor Edward died----'

  "Yes," said Lucilla, "it must have been a great loss, I am sure; thoughI can't say I mind going into a room alone, as some people do; but youknow you can avoid that, if you like, by coming early. Come at eight,and there will be nobody in the drawing-room, and you can choose yourown corner. Put it quite back--at the back of your head," said MissMarjoribanks, with a little anxiety. "I could show you how if I had thelace. I do so want you to loo
k nice. Oh, never mind the fashion. Whenone has a style of one's own, it is always twenty times better. Put itas you used to wear it before you were married; and then, with that niceblack silk----"

  "Oh, Lucilla, don't ask me," said the widow. "I shall not know how totalk, nor look, nor anything; and then I know nobody; and then----"

  "My dear, you have always _me_," said Lucilla, with tender reproach. "Iam so sorry I can't stop any longer. I leave it quite to your own tasteabout the lace. And you will find people you know, you may be quite sureof that. Remember, not later than nine o'clock; and come at eight if youdon't like to come into the room by yourself. Good-bye now. I want youto look very nice to-night," Miss Marjoribanks added, giving her friendan affectionate kiss; "you must, for my sake."

  "But, Lucilla----" cried Mrs Mortimer.

  It was vain to make any further protest, however, for Lucilla was gone,having, in the first place, communicated her requirements to Mary Jane,who was not likely to forget, nor to let her mistress be late. "And mindshe is _nice_," said Miss Marjoribanks emphatically, as she went out atthe door. It was necessary she should be nice; without that the intended_situation_ which Lucilla was preparing--the grand finale of herexertions--would fall flat, and probably fail of its effect. For this itwas necessary that the widow should look not only pretty, butinteresting, and a little pathetic, and all that a widow should lookwhen first dragged back into society. Miss Marjoribanks gave a momentarysigh as she emerged from the garden door, and could not but feelconscious that in all this she might be preparing the most dreaddiscomfiture and downfall for herself. Even if it passed over as itought to do, and nobody was charmed but the Archdeacon, who was theright person to be charmed, Lucilla felt that after this she never couldhave that entire confidence in her father which she had had up to thismoment. The incipient sentiment Dr Marjoribanks had exhibited was onethat struck at the roots of all faith in him as a father; and everyperson of sensibility will at once perceive how painful such asuggestion must have been to the mind of a young woman so entirelydevoted as was Miss Marjoribanks to the consolation and comfort of herdear papa.

  Lucilla was not allowed to spend the rest of this momentous afternoon inmaturing her plans, as might have been necessary to a lesserintelligence; and when the refreshing moment came at which she couldhave her cup of tea before preparing for the fatigues of the evening, itwas Mrs Chiley who came to assist at that ceremony. The old lady came inwith an important air, and gave Lucilla a long, lingering kiss, as oldladies sometimes do when they particularly mean it. "My dear, I am notgoing to stay a moment, but I thought you might have something to tellme," the kind old woman said, arranging herself in her chair with thesatisfaction of a listener who expects to be confided in. As forLucilla, who had no clue to Mrs Chiley's special curiosity, and who hada good many things on her mind just at that moment which she ratherpreferred not to talk about, she was for once struck with veritableastonishment, and did not know what to say.

  "Dear Mrs Chiley, what should I have to tell you?" said MissMarjoribanks. "You know very well where I should go the very firstmoment if anything happened;" and by way of staving off more particularquestions, she took her old friend a cup of tea.

  "Yes, my dear, I hope so," said Mrs Chiley, but at the same time herdisappointment was evident. "It is very nice, thank you--your tea isalways nice, Lucilla--but it was not that I was thinking of. I can'tunderstand how it is, I am sure. I saw him to-day with my own eyes, andcould not help seeing how anxious he was looking! I hope, I do hope, youhave not been so cruel as to refuse him, Lucilla--and all for somethingthat is not his fault, poor fellow, or that could be explained, you maybe sure."

  Miss Marjoribanks grew more and more surprised as she listened. She putaway the kettle without filling the teapot, and left her own cupstanding untasted, and went and sat down on the stool by Mrs Chiley'sfeet. "Tell me whom I have refused this time, for I don't know anythingabout it," said Lucilla; and then her visitor burst forth.

  "It must be all that creature's fault! He told me he was coming here;and to tell the truth, I stood and watched him, for you know howinterested I am, my dear; and then a little while after he met _that_Barbara. Oh, Lucilla, why were you ever so foolish as to have her here?I told you how it would end when you brought those artist people aboutyour house. They are all a set of adventurers!" cried Mrs Chiley. "I sawthem meet, and I was so disgusted that I did not know what I was doing;but he passed her as nicely as possible. Just a civil word, you know,and then he was past. Just as I would have done myself; for it is alwaysbest not to be uncivil to anybody. I could see her standing as if shehad been struck with lightning; and naturally, Lucilla, I never thoughtanything else than that he had come here, and that all was right betweenyou. Oh, my dear, I hope you are sure you have not refused him," MrsChiley said, piteously; "anyhow, Lucilla, you need not mind telling_me_. I may be sorry, but I will not blame you, my dear."

  "I have not refused anybody," said Lucilla, with a modest innocence thatit was a pleasure to see; "but, dear Mrs Chiley," she continued,raising her drooping eyelids, "I think you make a mistake about MrCavendish. My own opinion is that Barbara would make him a very nicewife. Oh, please, don't be angry! I don't mean to say, you know, that Ithink her quite what one would call _nice_--for oneself. But then thegentlemen have such strange ways of thinking. Many a girl whom we couldnot put up with is quite popular with Them," said Miss Marjoribanks,with a certain mild wonder at the inexplicable creatures whom she thuscondescended to discuss. "I suppose they have a different standard, youknow; and for my part, I would advise Mr Cavendish to marry Barbara. Ithink it is the best thing he could do."

  "Lucilla!" cried Mrs Chiley, almost with a shriek of horror. Shethought, as was perhaps natural, that there was some pique in what heryoung companion said; not doing Miss Marjoribanks justice--as indeed fewpeople did--for that perfect truthfulness which it was Lucilla's luckalways to be able to maintain. Mrs Chiley thought it was her youngfriend's maidenly pride and determination not to take up the part of awoman slighted or jilted. "You may refuse him, my dear, if your heart isnot with him," said the old lady; "but I would not be so hard upon himas that, poor fellow. You may say what you please, but I always willthink him nice, Lucilla. I know I ought to be on the Archdeacon's side,"said Mrs Chiley, putting her handkerchief to her eyes; "but I am an oldwoman, and I like my old friends best. Oh, Lucilla, it is not kind ofyou to keep up appearances with me. I wish you would give way a little.It would do you good, my darling; and you know I might be both yourgrandmothers, Lucilla," she cried, putting her arm round her favourite.As for Miss Marjoribanks, she gave her old friend a close embrace, whichwas the only thing that even her genius could suggest to do.

  "I have always _you_," said Lucilla, with touching eloquence; and thenshe freed herself a little from Mrs Chiley's arms. "I don't say,perhaps, that everybody will receive her; but I mean to make an effort,for my part; and I shall certainly tell Mr Cavendish so if he everspeaks of it to me. As for Mr Beverley, he is going to be married too.Did not you hear? He told me all about it himself one day," said MissMarjoribanks; "and I will ask him to-night if I may not tell you who thelady is. It is quite a little romance, and I hope we shall have twomarriages, and it will make it quite gay for the winter. When you knowall about it," Lucilla added tenderly, by way of breaking the shock, "Iam sure you will be pleased."

  But instead of being pleased, Mrs Chiley was speechless for the moment.Her fresh old cheeks grew ashy with dismay and horror. "The Archdeacontoo!" she cried, gasping for breath. "Oh, Lucilla, my dear?--and you?"Then the kind old lady held Miss Marjoribanks fast, and sobbed over herin the despair of the moment. To think, after all the pains that hadbeen taken, and all the hopes and all the speculations, that neither theone nor the other was coming to anything! "If it should be that General,after all--and I cannot abide him," sobbed Lucilla's anxious friend. ButMiss Marjoribanks's genius carried her through this trial, as well asthrough all the others which she had yet encountered on her way.

 
"Dear Mrs Chiley!" said Lucilla, "it is so good of you to care; but ifit had been _that_ I was thinking of, I need never have come home atall, you know; and my object in life is just what it has always been, tobe a comfort to papa."

  Upon which Mrs Chiley kissed her young friend once more with lingeringmeaning. "My dear, I don't know what They mean," she said, withindignation; "everybody knows men are great fools where women areconcerned--but I never knew what idiots they were till now; and you aretoo good for them, my darling!" said Mrs Chiley, with indignanttenderness. Perhaps Miss Marjoribanks was in some respects of the sameway of thinking. She conducted her sympathetic friend to the gardendoor, when it came to be time for everybody to go and dress, with acertain pathetic elevation in her own person, which was not out ofaccord with Mrs Chiley's virtuous wrath. To have Mrs Mortimer andBarbara Lake preferred to her did not wound Lucilla's pride--one can bewounded in that way only by one's equals. She thought of it with acertain mild pity and charitable contempt. Both these two men had hadthe chance of having _her_, and this was how they had chosen! And therecan be little wonder if Miss Marjoribanks's compassion for them wasmingled with a little friendly and condescending disdain.

  It was, however, an ease to Lucilla's mind that she had let Mrs Chileyknow, and was so far free to work out her plans without any fear ofmisconception. And on the whole, her old friend's tender indignation wasnot disagreeable to her. Thus it was, without any interval of repose tospeak of, that her lofty energies went on unwearied to overrule andguide the crisis which was to decide so many people's fate.